Satisfaction
by OMhypothesis
Summary: Wherein Dr. John Watson devises a scheme to tempt young Sherlock Holmes into eating regular meals, and ends up gaining an ominous new friend. Silly, one-shot, friendship and humor. Rating for slight cusses.


**You can read this anyway you want to. The story itself is fragmented and silly; it just crawled into my head and wouldn't leave me alone until I put it down.**

* * *

_Curiosity killed the cat;_

_Satisfaction brought it back._

Dr. John Watson was becoming a nag.

He knew it, he saw all the signs, and he hated it - but he couldn't stop. He dared anyone with a caring heart and a knowledge of basic human medicine _not_ to nag when presented with the daily reality of Sherlock Holmes. Smoking is bad for you, Sherlock. Cocaine is not an appropriate method of stress relief, Sherlock. Humans require 8 hours of sleep a night, Sherlock. _You can't live on air and caffeine_, Sherlock!

That last one was a constant concern for the doctor, seeing as a healthy store of fat and muscle could compensate for a number of other shocks to the body, but a man as skeletal as the young detective was liable to keel over at the first sign of a cough, let alone 48 hours of footwork and a recreational drug bender. John had tried every threat and guilt-trip in the book to get the calories into his flatmate, at one point considering a nightly nutrient drip, to almost no avail. He sighed and dropped into a seat at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table, picking idly at the bagel she'd set before him and trying to focus on what she was saying.

"-And I said to her, Amelia, it's no use hoping he'll change, men are terrible stubborn creatures and you'd do best just to get yourself away, perhaps a nice bungalow in Brighton -"

"Mmm," said the doctor absently. He leaned his head in his hands and perhaps he drifted off a bit, because the next thing he heard was Mrs. Hudson's grandmotherly version of cursing as a feline sprang away from the table with the last half of his smoked salmon and capers.

"Dratted cat! Oh John, let me get you another, since my sister's moving she's left Sadie with me for a few days and she's a right terror, never was fond of cats, they're so contrary!"

"It's all right, Emma," John soothed, standing. "I was just about full anyways. You're too good to a bloke you know."

"Pah!" she scoffed, secretly pleased. "It's almost funny, really."

"Hmm?"

"Idiot cat won't touch her own food. When I want her to eat it, she refuses. If she knows she can't have it, she'll bend over backwards to get it. Cats, right?"

A metaphorical lightbulb went on above John's tousled head.

* * *

"What can I do for you, Dr. Watson?" came a familiar cultured voice through the telephone speaker.

John had prepared his speech carefully. One could never be too careful with Mycroft. "I need your help. I want to fatten up Sherlock."

There was a brief, radiating pause. "Pointless," said the elder Holmes at last. "The fool has inured himself to the needs of the flesh. Nutrition is one of the things he scorns above all else." John was not put off. The interest in Mycroft's tone was practically tangible - all those fat jokes on Sherlock's part were coming to the fore. "Yes," John sighed with calculated helplessness, "but I thought perhaps if I knew some of his favorites I could tempt him from time to time. You know, keep him standing."

"Won't work," Mycroft rejoined, then paused again. "He'd see through you in a minute," he muttered bitterly.

"D'ya think?" John asked, turning up the 'dumb yokel' note to a level even Lestrade would have found suspicious. The Holmes boys, however, were a little too fond of their own brilliance and thus assumed everyone was as stupid as they pretended to be. "I just thought it was worth a shot - oh, I guess you know best." Another sad sigh. "Sorry to have bothered you then." He moved his phone around his face as if preparing to hang up.

"John… wait." The doctor grinned. "Yes?" he asked innocently.

"I'll have Anthea make a list."

* * *

The list was possibly one of the most bizarre collections of unrelated items John had ever seen.

_Geysier salad_

_Dansuke watermelon_

_Figs_

_Quince_

_Jiffy Peanut Butter_

_Ovolo mushrooms_

_Cheese straws_

_Almas caviar_

_Vienna sausages_

_Scottish shortbread_

_German forest honey_

_Turkish delight_

_Saffron rice_

etc. etc.

How did one's palate of favorites go from a 1₤ pot of meat to a 4000₤ watermelon? What the hell was an ovolo mushroom? More importantly, why Jiffy brand peanut butter?

"Don't ask," Mycroft had answered darkly when given that question. By his tone John had inferred life-threatening events might occur should he discover the answer, so he stifled himself accordingly. Now he settled back on his bed with his hands behind his head to ponder strategy.

It was clear he couldn't just show up with bags of peanut butter and caviar, or Sherlock would cotton on and refuse to eat for a week. No, John would have to be crafty. He pictured Amelia Berret-nee-Hudson's horrible cat. Yes, very crafty indeed. The next morning when John awoke, it was to find a note scribbled in… crayon? lip-liner? on the newspaper informing him that Sherlock was at the morgue and not to be disturbed. Excellent. Time to head to Tesco's.

Four hours later, John was finishing up the last bit of quince tart he'd baked earlier just as Sherlock barged in. The detective paused in the doorway, nostrils flaring. John polished off his tea and placed the crumb-laden plate in the sink. "What's that?" Sherlock demanded in his usual graceless way.

"New recipe from Mrs. Hudson. All gone I'm afraid." John licked his lips appreciatively. "Well, I'm for a shower. Did you want tea? Kettle's still hot."

"No, no," Sherlock grumbled, flinging himself coat and all on the sofa. When John emerged from the shower, the plate in the sink - along with the crumbs - had mysteriously vanished.

* * *

"Honestly, if you're going to think so loudly you can just leave!" the detective snarled from an awkward position on the floor. His scintillating eyes did not waver from the pool of blood he was studying. John met Lestrade's eyes, then shrugged and left the room, leaving the door open only a tiny crack.

Ten minutes later or so Sherlock barged out to investigate the crunching noises he was hearing and found his flatmate sharing a bag of cheese straws with a considerably more mellow Anderson than was usual. His lip curled upwards of its own accord. "How professional!" he sneered, just as John winked conspiratorially at the policeman. "Oh, give me that!" Sherlock bellowed, snatching the half-empty bag away and striding off amidst a sudden clamor of protests.

Later, in the cab, John asked for the remainder of his snack to be returned. "Threw it out," Sherlock grunted, picking his teeth with a fingernail.

* * *

John was carefully wrapping bread dough around vienna sausages when Sherlock emerged wild-eyed from his bedroom, clearly headed for the violin. Instead he detoured back and honed in on the baking sheet . "Is that breakfast? It's too much for just you," he remarked bluntly.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson's sister is coming by this morning and I thought I'd make enough for them too," John replied pleasantly as he pre-set the oven.

"But there's only six."

"Yes, two for each of us," John agreed, looking confused.

"But…" Sherlock trailed off, his expression growing indignant. "What about _me_?"

John stared at him, then slapped his thigh. "Hah!" he chortled. "As if you'd eat pigs-in-blankets! Go on, pull the other one."

The detective's face smoothed out into a condescending smile. "Oh John, John, _John_. How little you know me. I forget sometimes. Make the whole pan, don't let the dough go to waste."

Looking put-upon, John obeyed. Sherlock somehow kept that indulgent expression even while chewing up four servings of food.

* * *

Christmas was coming, and John had never been happier about it. Just the other day Sherlock frowned while walking up the stairs to the flat and slid a skinny finger under the waistband of his trousers, as if the tightness of the fit were somehow mystifying. Today John had thrown him into a tizzy by relentlessly shoving all his alembics and slides to the far end of the kitchen counter and setting out bowls of ingredients.

"I fail to see how this is necessary. We are not going to Molly's ridiculous fete and even if we were, we are certainly not taking comestibles. John, I need you to listen to my theories! John!"

"I'm right here, you daft tit. Talk away. And even if you want to stay here and sulk I'm going to the party and I'm taking figgy pudding - it's Christmas!"

"Figgy pudding," Sherlock sneered. He eyed the bowl of fresh figs predatorily from across the room. John's phone rang. "Oh, hang on," he muttered, fumbling in his pockets. "Hello? Yes, what is it?" He strolled out of the kitchen towards the stairs, still talking.

Normally Sherlock would be all over him, trying to deduce who he was talking to and for what purpose, but today there was no one hovering over his shoulder. John huffed a laugh, and his caller whispered, "It's working then?"

"All thanks to you, big brother," John assured him with quiet glee. "He's put on half a stone since September."

"Excellent," Mycroft muttered. "Excellent."

"John, you haven't nearly enough figs to make pudding!" a curiously sticky voice called from the other room. John took a breath. "Here we go," he told the phone before hanging up and marching forth. "What do you mean?" he shouted back. "I bought two pints of them!"

The once-full bowl of clean fruit was now looking rather forlorn. "God damn it, Sherlock!" John bellowed, making quite a show of inspecting his other ingredients. The detective leaned back in his chair to enjoy the ensuing row, every line of his body radiating satisfaction, and never noticed the merry twinkle in Dr. Watson's eye.

* * *

They returned home from the party glowing with cheer and too much mulled wine. "Phew!" groaned John as he cast off his coat and tie. "I've never seen you eat that much!"

Sherlock collapsed on the sofa with a groan. "I didn't know I _could_ eat that much," he grumbled. "Detestable habit, overeating. I'd have thought by now my stomach would have shrunk." He started to stretch out his legs, then made a surprised noise. "Here now, what's this?" He fished two packages out from under the pillows.

John attempted to rescue them from the detective before he shook them to pieces trying to deduce their contents. "Hey now, those look like presents! There's tags!" Prying the smaller package away, he opened the cheerful attachment and read, 'To SH, from MH.' "How brotherly," John managed witheringly before tossing it back.

"Makes this one for you then," Sherlock shrugged, handing John his present. "Bloody git. He only does it to annoy me!" Nevertheless Sherlock was ripping off the paper, uncovering a new cashmere scarf. "Bah," he scoffed, tossing it on the floor.

John had his open and was turning it over in his hands. "I didn't even think to get him anything," he mused. "…Beluga white caviar? Odd. Have to get some crackers at the store tomorrow."

"Crackers! From Tesco's!" Sherlock blurted, outraged. "Here John, take the scarf. _I'll_ have the caviar."

"What? No!" John protested, clutching the jar to his chest. "I can appreciate fine food. It's mine, he gave it to me."

"Have you ever even had it?" Sherlock replied scornfully.

"Not yet," John quipped.

"Just give it up," Sherlock wheedled. "You wouldn't like it, it's very salty and fishy."

"Won't know till I try," John insisted. Eyeing his flatmate suspiciously, he started up the stairs as if to hide his treasure.

Sherlock smirked to himself. Nothing John hid was safe from the world's only consulting detective.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was apparently feeling touchy today. Upon seeing his brother, he promptly approached and poked the detective's belly.

The look of absolute crimson mortification on Sherlock's face when Mycroft encountered a small layer of fat sent Dr. Watson into paroxysms of laughter. Sherlock, who was looking decidedly healthy and normal these days, stormed out of the office in high dudgeon, leaving John to the British Government's tender mercies.

Mycroft, who usually superseded his brother in his fervent distaste for human contact, wound a shockingly familiar arm around John's still-quivering shoulders. "I'm going to buy you a car," he told John fondly. "A lovely, bulletproof car. No, no, no protests. We must keep you around for a while. You can see yourself out? Good."

Sherlock's reaction to the whole scenario was to adamantly refuse dinner for a solid week. John smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and made Jiffy peanut-butter crackers to go with his tea.

_THE END_


End file.
